


Life is but a Dream

by childhoodlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol consumtion, Coming Out, F/F, Healing from trauma, Infidelity, May/December Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Sort Of, not sure where this is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2020-10-29 04:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childhoodlight/pseuds/childhoodlight
Summary: The war festers inside her body, inside her dreams. She reads and reads, about dreams and how to make them go away. All the books on the topic say things similar to Ginny's advice: you need to dare to explore the fear and the dream itself. Dare.But Hermione fears that the war managed to suffocate any traces of bravery within her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little story seems to become longer and longer so I figured I'd just start posting to get motivated again. All feedback is very welcome, and there are more chapters in the making and some are pretty much ready to be posted.

The war festers inside the body. The wine slinks down, first one glass, then another.

She feels like she’s lived lifetimes; she remembers the first time she and Ron kissed, remembers the pain of cat hairs in poly juice potion, remembers waking from being petrified, feeling hollow. She also remembers the first time she entered her office at the ministry, how excited she was to start working, remembers restoring her parents memories in Australia, their confused smiles as they came to.

Ron puts his arm around her and she leans her head on his shoulder. They’re at the leaky cauldron, at the weekly after work, surrounded by everyone they love: there’s Harry and Ginny, George, Neville, Luna, so many faces, so many smiles. Hermione sighs, takes another sip, feels her eyelids becoming heavy. Tired to the bones.

Ron nudges her, kisses her cheek: "Hey, 'Mione. Cheer up." 

She sighs, kisses him back, tries to swallow down the sadness. The war was won, sure, but there are way too many smiles, everywhere, way too often. Is no on else suffering from insomnia, like she is? Aren't there memories pestering their minds, refusing to leave them alone? Bellatrix Lestrange's wide eyes as she smiled, lips the colour of blood. She laughed and she laughed and the pain was unbearable. 

Hermione downs the wine glass and can feel it get to her head. 

Leaky Cauldron is getting packed, more and more young Ministry workers gathering to celebrate the weekend. She closes her eyes, tries to will herself into a better mood. _Come on, come on, come on. Smile. Have fun. Look at your boyfriend._

She opens her eyes and takes Ron's hand.

"Come on. Let's dance." 

x

No matter how drunk she is, no matter how tired she is, the dreams come. 

It always starts in the basement, leads to Bellatrix standing above her, carving into her arm. The dreams end with blue piercing eyes illuminated by a lone candle in the basement. Blue eyes and blonde hair and one, single, gentle touch to the cheek. 

Every night, Narcissa Malfoy appears in her dreams, eyes wide and face achingly empty. There's always that flicker. Mrs Malfoy is one of the few people left alive who know what Hermione went through at Malfoy Manor during those days and hours, and Hermione doesn't know what to do with that thought. Does it mean anything? Why does she keep appearing like this, every night? The dreams roam her body, leaving a heavy feeling in her limbs. 

x

After some weeks, Hermione decides to talk to Ginny about it. They're at the Burrow, having eaten Sunday dinner and she and Ginny have decided to take a walk in the apple garden. 

"Ginny?" Hermione says, brushing her dark curls out of her face so she can look at the red headed witch.

"Hmm?"

"How often do you dream?"

"Uh..." Ginny frowns, gives her a side-eye, "I honestly don't know. You mean how often do I remember a dream? Maybe once every second week...? Sometimes more often, sometimes less."

She nods. 

"Why?" Ginny's eyes are gentle in the evening sunlight and so very wise. Hermione looks away and clears her throat. Ginny continues: "Are you having dreams?

Hermione nods. 

"About what?"

"Nightmares." 

"About what?" 

"I'd rather not say. But... yeah. You can probably guess." 

Ginny nods and takes her hand, forcing her to stop. 

"I don't know how much you know about dreams, Hermione. I know you're not very keen on divination and the likes of it. But if you're having one recurring dream night after night, that definitely means something. It's part of your mind and soul, and therefore your magic."

Hermione swallows, trying to silence all arguments against such unscientific theories. That's what's scaring her, as well. She can feel it in her bones, how the dreams connect with everything that she is. They're not just random Muggle versions of dreams. It's magic. But why and how and what does it mean? 

"What should I do?" 

"Hmmm." Ginny is silent for a while and then resumes the walk about the garden. 

"My mum always said to not be afraid of them. And if I have conscious will in them, dare to explore them. So you can understand why they're happening and what they're trying to tell you." 

"You mean... I should... take action... in my dream?" Hermione frowns, feeling out of her depth. 

"Yes. If that's possible. Or if that doesn't work, try to see how it connects to your real life. Is there any way you can understand the dream and deal with it when you're awake, in your every day life?"

Ginny stops once again, right outside the front door. "But I don't know, Hermione."

Hermione nods. "No... Thanks, Ginny. That was helpful. I'll see what I come up with."

Ginny smiles, sadly. "Is this why things have been so weird with Ron lately?"

Hermione's cheeks turn pink and she can feel the stress in her throat. "What do you mean? Has he been talking?"

"Calm down, 'Mione. It's not a big thing. I think he's just worried. And... a little lonely. Maybe you should talk to him about this." 

x

For days, Hermione tries to gather the courage to talk to Ron, she really does, but something always stops her. A feeling that this is not what either she or he needs. Ron has nothing to do with the dream or those days at the Manor, it won't do well to involve him. They might be together, but this is her own problem. 

The dreams continue, and the lines underneath her eyes become more prominent. If anyone around her notices, they don't say anything. Hermione goes to work each day, the only place where some of her old fire returns, where she can feel like she's actually doing something good in the wake of this war. The moment she returns to her and Ron's flat, the energy drains from her. 

x

She makes a habit of going to the big wizard library in connection to Diagon Alley each Sunday, to research her dreaming patterns. She makes notes in a book where she also writes down the dates of the dreams and if there are changes in them. It's a scientic approach to it, she knows that, but it's the only thing she knows. She sits in one of the armchairs at the very back of the big library, next to a window overlooking a courtyard. 

She reads and reads, about dreams and how to make them go away. All the books on the topic say things simliar to Ginny's advice: you need to dare to explore the fear and the dream itself. Dare.

Hermione wonders if the war managed to suffocate any traces of bravery within her. She doesn't dare talk to Ron, she doesn't dare go to sleep, she doesn't dare explore anything that has to do with the dreams and the torture in them. 

Bellatrix's laugher rings in her ears, and she closes her eyes.

x

  
One day, she sees a mane of blonde hair in-between the shelves. For a moment, her mind flashes backwards into her memories, down to the basement and the blue eyes. Could it be? But... what are the odds? Her body shudders, but it also _wakes up. _She stands up quickly and hurries down the narrow path in between the shelves. 

"Wait!" she says, and turns the corner. Long blonde hair, high heels, elegant purple robes... It is her. But she doesn't stop and Hermione doesn't know what to do, just knows she has to get more than a glimpse. 

"Please." The library is so very silent and her voice easily travels across the space toward Mrs Malfoy.

Mrs Malfoy stops and slowly, slowly turns around.

Her face is a blank mask, a beautiful blank mask, surrounded by silken hair. 

Hermione reminds herself to breathe and that it is indeed in order to say something. 

"Could you..." Hermione takes a few steps forward and Mrs Malfoy watches her wearily. "Could you please... just... wait." 

Mrs Malfoy does not move, does not say anything, until Hermione has come closer. But Hermione doesn't know what to say, just knows that she needs someone who actually shares these memories, albeit from an entire other point of view, position, life, feeling, belief... but still, simply... a memory shared. 

"The war," Hermione manages to mumble and feels her cheeks heating up, heart pounding. Her body is responding, finally filled with energy after months of sleeplessness and hopelessness. 

Mrs Malfoy's voice is soft, "What about it, Ms Granger?" 

"I... It's still inside my body." Hermione knows she sounds pretty crazy and pretty unlike herself, but it's the only way she can explain it. 

"Hmmm. Yes. That's understandable." There's no empathy, no feeling, apart from a flicker of recognition. 

"I can't seem to... let it go." 

"And that's my problem, how?" Hostility and venom and beautiful, blue eyes.

"I just..." Hermione is at loss for words and when nothing escapes her lips, Mrs Malfoy gives her a harsh look before turning around. She starts walking, high heels against the wooden floors. 

Hermione's eyes close. The library is eerily quiet.

"I keep seeing you."

Mrs Malfoy halts to a stop.

"I keep seeing you in my dreams," Hermione continues and the desperation keeps pushing her forward, "why is that? You and your sister. The blood. The curses. The smell in the basement. And... you... your hand... on my cheek. Gentle. Please... Explain to me." Mrs Malfoy turns around and Hermione walks up to her, all the way up, so that they're actually within conversational distance of each other.

Hermione continues: "I've been going over this in my head for months. How is it that during the day, when I'm awake, living, alive... I feel nothing. But in a fucking dream that can't seem to leave me alone, you simply put your hand... right here..." Hermione puts her own hand on her cheek, "and... I feel.. calm. Grounded... Or I don't even know. At least I feel something. And then, I wake up." 

Mrs Malfoy is frowning. 

"Why did you have to do that? Or rather, how could you? For hours on end you witnessed my torture. You stayed silent, and your eyes were so... mean. But then in the basement, you... turned soft. And I witnessed that. I know I was out of it pretty much my entire time down there... but still. You became soft..."

The softness echoed through the flesh. The softness was amplified a hundred times over in the silence that was the cruelty. 

Mrs Malfoy looks so very uncomfortable. Closes her eyes, lets out a breath. 

"Ms Granger." She doesn't say anything, doesn't open her eyes. After twenty seconds or so she finally opens her eyes, and they're glassy. Her voice is a whisper.

"I am so very sorry. I won't ask you to forgive me. But I am sorry."

Hermione doesn't know what to say, and after a few seconds Mrs Malfoy turns around, and walks away.

That night, the dreams change. She is lying on the floor of the basement, but no one comes. There's no light, no feeling, nothing. Just an empty basement and an aching body with wounds scattered across it. Blood.

This, ironically, awakens something in her. Some kind of memory of being a person with endless curiosity. She used to want to learn things, want to understand things, but since the war all she's wanted to do is forget. Now, there's a simmer underneath the surface, a sign of life. She breathes out a sigh, grateful for a flicker of something she thought was lost. 

A week later, Ron's voice becomes soft and small, as they lie in bed. 

"Do you even like me anymore?" He sounds heartbroken, and she swallows down the fear.

"Of course, Ron. I love you, you know that."

"Yes. I know you love me. But do you _like _me? I honestly don't know what... what to feel anymore."

Hermione starts crying, turning around to embrace him. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Ron. I keep having these nightmares and they're so exhausting. Ever since the war ended, I just feel like my body is slowly giving in to... in to..." She can't talk about it. 

Ron tightens him embrace. "It's okay, my love. We'll get through this. I know we will."

She tries to believe him, and for the first time in months they fall asleep intertwined, and she dreams, of course, but only for a tiny bit of a moment. 

Two weeks later, it's Sunday, and she's in the library again, poring over her notes, trying to find some kind of pattern, something to latch onto. There isn't. Just as the exhaustion and frustration are about to fill her to the brink, a clicking sound reaches her ears. Heels against wood. It can't be...?

  
Narcissa Malfoy rounds the corner and when the soft sunlight through the window reaches her face, Hermione's mouth falls open. Mrs Malfoy's eyes are harsh blue orbs. She walks all the way to Hermione's table.

  
"Hello. Mind if I join you?" Her voice is smooth and cool.

Hermione nods, feeling the adrenaline rush through her. Mrs Malfoy takes a seat opposite of her, sitting with a very straight spine.

"The dreams you mentioned. Are they still happening?

Hermione nods again.

"What exactly is it you dream?" 

Hermione's mind, which had stopped to a halt, starts moving again, "Well. They're always a version of the same event. Your sister. Blood. Pain. Screams... and then, waking up in the basement to the sight of you. Leaning down. Giving me water and then... touching my face."

Mrs Malfoy nods, seemingly unaffected by Hermione's retelling. 

"How do you feel when you wake up?"

"Like I want to jump out of my own skin. Every single morning. It's exhausting." 

Mrs Malfoy nods again, but doesn't say anything. 

Hermione pushes, "What do they mean? How do I make them stop?"

"It's pretty obvious, don't you think?" For some reason Mrs Malfoy's voice isn't quite as sharp as before, "you need to work through the trauma of that event."

Hermione tsks frustratedly, "I'm not stupid. I know that. But _how?" _

At this, Mrs Malfoy's eyes become even bluer, lovelier, "If only I knew how." 

They stay silent for a minute, and Mrs Malfoy is truly quite beautiful in the afternoon sun. The sun lends her the warmth her countenance lacks. 

"I thought I was going to die," Hermione begins, and she doesn't really know where the words are coming from. Mrs Malfoy's eyes are alert. "And that's not special, not when one's been in a war, and I've been close to death more times than I can count. But there was something so incredibly frightening about being trapped in that manor. Surrounded by so many people that wanted to do me harm. Me, bound with ropes, trapped, hexed and beaten and cut. I just... I can't shake that deep fear... that... feeling. You know?" Mrs Malfoy's eyes are so very focused on Hermione's face. Hermione swallows and continues: "I think... it was the fact that I'd been so brutally beaten and cut for so many many hours that... when you touched me like that, it just... magnified. The touch magnified and I honestly think some part of my... magic or something latched onto it. That touch. And I had never thought you of all people would look at me like that, with... softness. I didn't think you had it in you, to be honest." 

Mrs Malfoy's face looks guarded but not entirely hostile. She's silent for a minute before answering:

"I didn't think... I didn't think I'd feel any pity toward you. I didn't think I'd feel anything at all. But then after so many hours with Bellatrix and her absolute madness, I... couldn't help myself. You were lying there on the floor, so very helpless and... I became so tired."

Hermione has no idea what that means but nods anyways.

"I just wish I could forget it." 

"As do I."

They sit in silence, having reached a strange acceptance. 


	2. Chapter 2

Next Friday, Hermione's entering the Leaky Cauldron for the weekly after work, and Mrs Malfoy for some god-forsaken reason is standing by the bar, talking closely with another witch. Their eyes meet and Hermione can't help but walk a bit too closely by the bar on the way to the table at the back.

The other witch is busy ordering so Hermione takes the opportunity to slow her pace.

  
"Please come on Sunday." The words pour out of her in a whisper and judging by Mrs Malfoy's facial expression, Hermione caught her off guard. 

Mrs Malfoy turns back to the bar and Hermione keeps walking.

x

Hermione catches glimples of her throughout the evening. She's sitting close with the other witch, whispering in her ear, moving closer with her chair. How strange it is to see her in an environment like this. In a _bar_.

Hermione drinks water, no alcohol, has decided she needs to face sleep and the dreams without dulling the pain. It's too destructive, too slippery a slope to be treading on. Ron drinks beer, a hand on her thigh. Harry and Ginny are off in some corner, still on a high from getting engaged a few weeks ago, taking every opportunity to be alone even when **on an outing**.

Hermione shivers, presses closer to Ron. Sees Mrs Malfoy walk out of the bar, closely followed by the other witch. She's curious about the nature of their relationship. If had almost looked like they'd been flirting. Hermione feels her cheeks heat up. She decides to leave Ron to his own devices, and go home. He usually wants to be out much later than her, and go out clubbing, which isn't really Hermione's cup of tea. She kisses him good bye and apparates home. 

x

Mrs Malfoy does not show up on Sunday.

x

On a Tuesday, her mum calls, worry in her voice.

"You're depressed aren't you?" 

Hermione nods and then remembers her mum can't see her. "Yes. I think so. Probably. I'm just... so tired." 

  
Her mum's voice becomes very gentle: "You know we are not angry with you. We know it was a tough choice. Would we have wanted to be there for you and fight for you and not forget we had a daughter for a year? Yes. But it's ok. We love you and we want you to be happy. Please, come over soon, darling." 

Hermione tries to keep the tears from falling. 

"Mum... How did you know you wanted to spend your life with dad?" 

Her mum pauses, speaks slowly. "Trouble with Ron?" 

"I honestly don't know. It's pretty fine. I just... don't _feel _anything. Ever. Except for when I dream my nightmares." 

Her mum sighs, "Oh sweetheart, that's what depression does to you. It cloaks everything in sadness, or in your case... apathy. But don't you think there's love still underneath all that? You just need time to find it again?" 

Hermione nods. "Maybe." 

x

She's in a beautiful garden. Tulips, lilies, green grass and trees cloaked in heavy, nourished leaves, beauty everywhere she looks. But there's not a person in sight, and she wonders what she's supposed to do. She has a nagging suspicion that it's a dream, but doesn't really know what to do about that either. A cool breeze brushes her cheek, gentle, like a hand wiping away dirt, like a memory inside the pain, and she wakes up.

x

Three weeks later, and once again: Friday after work. This time, Hermione drinks wine, and Ron and she sneak to the bathroom to make out, like teenagers. Some colour is returning to her face, some kind of sparkle in her eyes, and she feels the gratefulness fill her, kisses Ron harder, pushes him against the wall. Her body's heating up, but before they can actually lock themselves inside one of the cubicles, the door opens, and Ginny enters.  
"For fuck's sake guys, I'm happy that you're happy, or whatever, but come back to the table. You can just... do it at home, later, okay? And we're going to settle that bet, remember Ron? It's time to play _daaaaarts_." 

She drags them out the bathroom and she and Ron vanish to the corner of the pub where a majority of their circle have migrated to watch the game between the two siblings. Hermione smiles at the sight of them, gathered together, smiling and _living. _  
She still feels worked up, however, and unbuttons the two top buttons of her white shirt. It's too hot. As she does this, she notices an almost familiar blonde mane at the bar. Mrs Malfoy. Again. Of all the places she could go to have a glass of wine, she keeps picking this place. To Hermione, the thought is absurd.   
She feels a bit reckless, braver and more like herself than she has in quite some time. She walks to the bar and takes the seat closest to Mrs Malfoy.  
"What are you doing here?" Hermione says, keeping her voice low, senses kind of overwhelmed by a cool, sweet scent. The blonde looks up, eyebrows rising. They're closer physically than ever, probably, apart from that one moment in the basement. Hermione lets go of the thought and orders another glass of wine by the barkeep.

"And that's your business... how, exactly, Ms Granger?"   
"I was just curious." 

"Hm." Mrs Malfoy bites her lip, quickly, but Hermione catches it, and Malfoy's eyes scan the room, settling in the direction of the bathroom. Hermione continues:  
"Are you here with the same witch as last time?"  
"Last time?"  
"Yeah. A couple of weeks ago. I saw you sit at the bar and then leave together. I walked past you... and I said... whatever. Nevermind."   
Mrs Malfoy takes a sip of her wine. "How observant. Careful Ms Granger. It really is none of your business." But she almost gives Hermione an echo of a smile and Hermione can't help but stay, ask for more.  
"Why won't you show up on Sundays?"   
Mrs Malfoy's face is blank. "I really don't see why I should."  
Hermione sighs, searches her mind for a good reason to give, "The things I said last time... in the library. Do you remember?"  
Mrs Malfoy's eyes are harsh, as if she doesn't at all like having any kind of memory in connection to Hermione. But after a few seconds, she nods.  
"I think you could help me. I don't know how and I don't really know if I even want you to... but I think that's what's needed."   
"How could I help you? What would I do?" There's a sarcastic bite to Mrs Malfoy's tone.  
Hermione looks down at her wine glass, takes a big sip. "I don't know."   
They sit in silence for about half a minute until Hermione dares look up to her left. Their eyes lock and Hermione almost wants to close hers when they do. Blue orbs, memory after memory, dream twisted into feeling and wishing and wanting to forget. All the sensations mix in her chest, feeling so very messy.  
"You should probably go, Ms Granger. I am expecting someone."   
Hermione takes in Mrs Malfoy's appearance, sees the slight blush on her cheeks, and the pink, glossy lips, heavy earrings, a hint of cleavage... and... Hermione forces her eyes to look up, only to be met by a smirk on Mrs Malfoy's face.  
"Eyes up here, Ms Granger." It's biting and cold yet Hermione detects an undertone of genuine playfulness in Mrs Malfoy's eyes, and the combination of the two makes her insides turn with something she doesn't really want to identify.  
"Uh.... no. Or... No. I mean, you're very, uh. You're."  
Mrs Malfoy's left eyebrow rises, "I'm?"   
Hermione closes her eyes, opens them, finishes her glass of wine.   
"Just... come on Sunday. Please."  
And then, without looking back at Mrs Malfoy, she hurries back to the corner of the bar.

x

Two days later, the sun is out and the wind pretty mellow, a hesitant promise of spring. Hermione is in her usual corner of the library, and the courtyard is empty and still outside the window. She doesn't know if Mrs Malfoy will show up, doesn't know why she wants it so badly. But it's like there's something inside of her body that can feel it, strong and clear, a connection that breathes life into the side of her that can't stop hurting and dreaming and stressing. If the dreams need to be handled in some way in real life, Mrs Malfoy is part of it, Hermione can feel it. The question of _why_ rings in her head, but she's too overwhelmed to question it. Doesn't have any energy to fight the direction that her emotional subconscious seems to want to take her.

At around 1PM there's the sound of heels against wood, and Mrs Malfoy turns the corner. She's beautiful, as always, a cool and guarded kind of beauty. Her blonde hair seems to be in some sort of french twist and her deep purple robes are so very elegant. Hermione cannot help but give her a small, grateful smile as she approaches the table and sits down opposite of her.   
"You showed."

"It seems I did." Mrs Malfoy does not smile back, only gives her a pointed look.

They're silent for a few seconds and then Mrs Malfoy opens her purse and takes out a small book.   
"What's that?" Hermione asks, feeling the curiosity grow within her.   
"What does it look like, Ms Granger? It's a note book." Mrs Malfoy picks up of one of the quills and opens the note book.  
Hermione does not say anything and Mrs Malfoy starts writing. Hermione shrugs, somehow feeling content with Mrs Malfoy just being there. One step at a time, she reminds herself.   
After a half hour of writing, Mrs Malfoy stops. Hermione looks up and their eyes meet.   
"What have you been writing?" Hermione asks.

"I suppose you could say I was inspired by you." She says it evenly and without emotion. "It's a dream diary."   
"Oh."   
Mrs Malfoy looks down at her hands and then out the window.   
"Are you having nightmares as well?"   
Mrs Malfoy meets Hermione's gaze. "Sometimes."  
"What happens in them?" Hermione tries not to sound too curious.   
Mrs Malfoy looks at her for a long time, "You really want to know?"   
"I do."   
Mrs Malfoy seems to struggle with the words, "You... You're not the only one who had to endure a certain kind of treatment, you should know."   
Is Mrs Malfoy saying she was tortured as well? Hermione shudders at the thought. It's not like Mrs Malfoy had anywhere to escape.  
"They tortured you? Who did? Your sister?"   
"No. Not Bellatrix. She'd never. Or I suppose, if the Dark Lord really... but no."  
The air feels incredibly vulnerable and Hermione isn't sure she if she should push for more information or not. She decides against it.  
"Thank you for sharing, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione says simply and gives Mrs Malfoy a hint of a smile.  
"It's Narcissa." Her voice is soft and barely a whisper. "If I am to be sharing... this... anything, with you. It's Narcissa." Mrs Malfoy looks out the window and then stands up before Hermione can respond.   
"I think that's enough for me today." Mrs Malfoy looks down at Hermione, eyes unreadable and face so very beautiful in the sunlight.   
"Goodbye, Ms Granger."   
She puts her note book in her purse and turns to leave.

"It's Hermione."   
Mrs Malfoy slows down, but doesn't turn around, and soon she's out of sight.

x

A calm settles inside of her, like a sea finally getting to rest, waves becoming mere cripples. She goes about her week as per usual, meetings at the ministry, dinners at home with Ron and nights that grant her a little more rest than before. Some nights, she doesn't even dream. Ron and she go to watch a quidditch game, cheering on the Chudley Cannons, dressed in red top to toe. She yells until her voice is pleasantly hoarse, and that night is the first night she sleeps like a rock. No dreams, no twisting and turning, just heavy, exhausted sleep. 

The next Sunday, Hermione eagerly waits for Mrs Malfoy to show up. Hermione reads through her dream diary and notes, and is in awe of the fact that the dreams have lessened, taken on a slightly softer edge. Why? How? Is this how it works? Does depression simply wear itself out? Or is there any sort of change she herself has seen to...

She hears the familiar click clack sound of heels against wood and looks up to greet Mrs Malfoy with a smile. She almost smiles back, for the first time. Almost.

"Hi. How have you been?"   
"Quite well. Thank you for asking."  
Sometimes Hermione wants to laugh at the extreme manners of the Malfoys and how impeccably fake it all is.  
Mrs Malfoy (Hermione is still struggling with daring to think of or address the woman by her first name, it's somehow entirely too intimate for her tastes) takes a seat opposite of her and pulls out the notebook and the quill. She starts writing immediately, brows furrowed in concentration and every once in a while, biting her lip. Hermione can't stop staring as the sun hits the woman's face.

Mrs Malfoy looks up. "What are you staring at?"  
Hermione immediately blushes and looks down at her hands. "Sorry." 

Hermione looks up again, to be met by a silent stare. She clears her throat and says again: "I'm sorry."

Mrs Malfoy's eyes are open and intense, a little bit suspicious. "Well. Stop it." She orders and Hermione nods. She picks up one of the books on the table and opens it. It's called "_The magical theories on dreams_", and Hermione's been trying to get it into it without success, but she's not a good student for nothing, so she keeps going. The courtyard isn't empty on this particular Sunday, but filled with children on toy brooms, hovering a few inches above the ground, children writing on the cobbled ground with magical crayons and more children playing catch. Hermione wonders who they are, why they're there all of a sudden. Is it some kind of a day care? She spots a young woman seated on a bench in the corner, supervising the children with a bored look. But isn't it Sunday? Even the magical world has week ends where the children stay at home with their family. Hermione is torn between reading and watching the small children laugh and play in the sun. And Mrs Malfoy writes and writes, seems entirely engrossed in her own words. Sometimes Hermione can't help but shoot a glance at the blonde and notice how the colours of a slow sundown play beautifully across her features.   
Eventually, Hermione manages to get into the book and actually take in what's being explained. In this particular chapter the topic is that of dreams and magic and the parallells to the notion of religion. How peculiar. Never once has Hermione encountered the idea of Gods and spirituality within the magical community. She bites her lip and keeps reading eagerly.   
She hears how Mrs Malfoy stops writing and starts collecting her things. Hermione looks up from the book and at Mrs Malfoy. Mrs Malfoy does not put down her notebook but instead starts to suddenly rip out the pages. Hermione stands up in surprise.

"What are you doing?" 

Mrs Malfoy doesn't say anything, however, just keeps ripping out the pages, one two three four fave six seven. Seven pages with ink on both sides. She organises them and then hands them to Hermione.  
"Here. Read this. When you have time. When no one's near. No can read this._ No one_." Mrs Malfoy's eyes become bluer and brighter. And then her face becomes slightly soft, like it seldom does, like Hermione doubts many people have seen her, and Mrs Malfoy looks contemplative. "Please, do not make me regret it." She holds Hermione's gaze for a few seconds and Hermione doesn't know what to do, only feels her heart beat quicker and harder in her chest. And Mrs Malfoy lets go of the papers they'd both been holding and walks down the isles of books until she's out of sight.

_The dreams grow into memories that grow into pain. I try to reach out, feel the wind, sense some kind of hope in the sunlight, but the strong, bright sky glues my eyelids to my cheeks. I wonder how Lucius is doing, wonder what it's like being trapped like that, locked inside your home for years and years. He appears next to me, pale blue eyes tired. His hand reaches out to touch my cheek, but the touch is empty, without love. Where did the love go? Can it be revived, this old and cracked thing of a marriage that we're in? The love stayed on our skins throughout the first war, after the first war, in the calm in between storms. But as Draco grew, the horros grew in number, and Luce's hands became so tainted with the blood of the innocent that my body started convulsing whenever he tried to come near. _

_Sometimes, I dream of a touch that is simple and gentle._

_My bones feel heavy and brittle, and I don't know what it is that I see when I look at myself in the mirror. The nightmares come, and they roam my mind_

_but they also always, always_

_go. _

_They always end, and I wake up to a new day. _

_In the midst of this war, I always clinged to the image of Draco, alive and healthy, and old. I kept repeating to myself: he has to get the chance to grow old, he has to learn and develop and mature, and most importantly he has to love. He has to get to experience a loving touch from someone he can call his. In the midst of the war, there was doubt and there was pain, there was immense fear. And in the midst of this war, I always seemed to gravitate to the same thing: a gentle touch. Non sexual, non threatening. A simple reminder of life, of the blood on its way to the heart, of time passing, of skin that has felt and survived, of memory. A touch, gentle and with a promise, a reminder of hope._

_You cannot give it meaning that isn't there, you cannot calculate and fit it into a pattern, you cannot decide how it is going to affect you. The touch is there, simple and warm, and the only thing you can do is recieve it, and dare to let it affect you. Calm you. Remind you. You cannot rationalise it or turn it into some kind of scientific evidence of anything really. It was there and it happened. I do understand your need to make sense of it, but I think that's the entire point of feeling. It doesn't make sense. It gave you something to hold on to, something that I never could have given you with words. I don't know you and I don't particularly care to get to know you. I didn't care much, but I suppose I did care a little bit. I didn't know where it came from within me and you don't know why it affected you so. It happened, and it gave you something to cling to during a very traumatic and painful experience, and it reminded me, for a moment, of my own softness. Let us see the beauty in that, and let's leave it at that._

_ NM_

Hermione reads the pages over and over and over, marvelling at how eloquent and poetic the words are. Mrs Malfoy does not want them to continue, but _leave it at that_. So, Hermione will simply have to respect her wishes and stay away. She doesn't know what else to feel about anything she just read, other than a sort of awe at being allowed to read such personal thoughts. It's nearing 6PM when she finally decides to go home, feeling slightly defeated. As she packs her things and stuffs her books and quills into her bag, she notices that the children in the courtyard are gone. She frowns. Who are they? Why this courtyard? She leaves the library with a head full of questions and she feels tired but strangely calm. As she lies in bed that night, one particular sentence from the pages stands out. Ron sleeps next to her and Hermione looks at the sky outside the window, dark and heavy:

_The nightmares come, and they roam my mind_

_but they also always, always_

_go. _


	3. Chapter 3

The sea spreads from core to edge, expands, like the light does in spring. 

Hermione sleeps and she dreams, but she also wakes up. The days turn into weeks, and as Sundays approach, Hermione isn't entirely surprised when the blonde does not turn up. The dream dairy turns from a methodological documentation into something she has yet to understand: she writes the words that come to her, and hurries to let the ink touch the parchment before she second guesses the thought. The diary becomes messy, unpredictable and filled with feeling.

On some Sundays she simply sits and looks out the window at the children playing in the slowly warming spring sun. The same young woman sits and supervises them with the same bored look. Hermione feels bad for the children; shouldn't there be more adults around, actually giving them attention, playing and laughing with them? 

During the weeks, she spends long days at the Ministry and then goes home to hers and Ron's flat to read. She goes to bed early and sleeps better than she has in months. Her mum calls the very old muggle land line they own, but Hermione barely has time to answer on a normal day. 

That Friday, after weeks of not going, she decides to join their group of friends at their weekly after work. She actually apparates home beforehand to change into a skirt and wrap around blouse she had bought recently, and she puts up her curls in a high ponytail and even adds a bit of lip gloss. She apparates to the Leaky Cauldron and is immediately informed that this particular evening, there's a big party down the street that everyone at the Ministry is going to, and they're all going to go there and this is simply pre drinks. Hermione sighs and accepts her fate. She's never been a big fan of parties or clubbing but she supposes it couldn't hurt to join them for once. 

As they sit together, Ron squeezes her thigh and whispers in her ear: "Hey, 'Mione. I'm so glad you're feeling better."   
She smiles. "Yeah? So am I." 

"Maybe we should go on holiday soon. Just for a few days or something. Relax."   
"I like the sound of that. I'll just have to check my schedule at the Ministry."  
Ron sighs. "Your loyalty to your duties is unparallelled, really, babe." 

She rolls her eyes, and the air feels light.

After an hour and a half, the group migrates down the street of Diagon Alley to another of its connected neighbouring streets, this one filled with restaurants and bars and clubs. They're heading to the The Jinx, a newly opened, huge club located in an old beautiful 19th century building. Hermione, without knowing why, fleetingly manages to wonder if a certain Mrs Malfoy could be there before she's dragged inside and ordered to have a shot. Ginny grabs her hand. "Soz, brother, tonight, she's mine." And they leave the boys in by the wardrobe. 

Ginny orders shots and the music is very, very loud, so she has to scream directly into Hermione's ear:  
"You're feeling better, aren't you? You look better. But maybe that's the shirt. I love it." Ginny winks at the cleavage at display and Hermione blushes. She hadn't intentionally dressed in any sort of... or had she? Whatever.  
"Yes. I'm feeling much better. I'm sleeping again."   
"That's great! What changed? Did you come up with something?"   
Hermione doesn't know what to say, just knows that the truth is off the table. "Uh... I guess. It just passed."  
Ginny grabs her tiny shot glass and gives one to Hermione. Her eyes are serious and too intelligent. 

"If you say so." 

They drink and decide to head to the packed dance floor where she spots several familiar faces. She smiles at them all but doesn't go up to anyone, just lets Ginny drag her to the middle and get lost in the loud music. 

And its on the dance floor that it happens. Somehow, she manages to lose Ginny in the crowd, and she dances, surrounded by sweaty bodies, decides to just keep going. She closes her eyes, dances for God knows how long, and opens her eyes.

A pair of grey green eyes find hers, a few metres away, a few bodies in between; their eyes lock and stay locked. Until they come closer. A girl, a woman, dances towards her, long straight dark hair, green eyes, big lips. She's beautiful. Hermione feels her heart rate pick up, hands already sweaty, body warm and alive. And the girl dances right up to her, gives her a smile in the semi darkness, and puts her hands on Hermione's hips. Hemione's hands automatically fall on top of the girls hands, but instead of taking them off, she merely squeezes them. The girl smiles and leans closer and Hermione's head is spinning, body entirely too warm, and, and, she should pull away but something in her mind seems to have shut off because she herself slowly leans forward and--

their lips meet. Soft and slow and surrounded by music.

Loud music and sweat and-- and-- lips, a tongue gently asking for entry, hands that travel higher, higher, until they reach-- 

Hermione jumps back, eyes wide with fear and adrenaline and... something else. She stares at the girl, who looks kind of confused.

"I'm sorry, I have to... I have to go." 

Hermione flees the dance floor, almost runs through the club until she reaches the restrooms. The queue is long but at least she's not on the dance floor anymore. She can feel her heavy breathing, the sweat on her skin, the adrenaline rushing inside of her; she needs to calm down. What the fuck had just happened? She had just kissed someone, someone other than Ron, a... woman. 

And it had felt... so very natural. Hermione closes her eyes, feels a tear escape down her cheek. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. Is she supposed to tell Ron? What the fuck is she supposed to do? Pretend like it never happened, shuffle it into the back of her mind, forget it, forget it, forget it---

The last thing she remembers is a pair of hands catching her right before her body hits the floor. 

.

She comes to, slowly, eyes blinking and onfocused. The room is dimly lit, softly, as if only with candles. She seems to be in some kind of office, with book shelves lining the walls, a desk and a small sitting area with a sofa she's currently lying on. She turns her head to be met by the sight of none other than the awol Mrs Malfoy. Narcissa. Uh. Hermione blinks, tries to shake the confusion from her mind.

"Where am I?"

"At Jinx," she answers evenly. 

"What happened?"

"It seems you fainted."

"Why?"

"You tell me." Narcissa's arms are crossed, and her long hair is in a tight bun. She looks so stern, Hermione notes, feels her cheeks heat.

"Right. I kissed someone." Hermione's almost mumbling.

"What?"

"Other than my boyfriend. I kissed someone other than Ron. A girl... A really... she was so..."

Hermione's thoughts feel fuzzy and she closes her eyes.

Narcissa has the audacity to _snort_. 

Hermione's eyes open.

"You kissed a girl. So what? You've never kissed a girl before?" 

She's got an annoying smile on her face.

"No..? Is that so weird? I've been with Ron since I was 17." 

Narcissa's eyes become serious. "I forget how young you are. You fainted because of this kiss?"

"I... I honestly don't know. I ran for the restroom and suddenly I just fell... I think."

"You're lucky someone caught you before your head hit the stone floor. You don't need to go to St Mungos? You're fine now?" 

Hermione nods, barely hears the question. "Why are you here?"

  
Narcissa's eyes flicker about the room. 

  
"I was passing by as you fell. There was a small gathering in one of the private rooms earlier this evening and I was about to leave when I saw you lying there, surrounded by people. I thought it best you wake up in a more private, calm setting. You've only been out for a few minutes and I was just about to go find someone to-."  
  


"Thank you." 

Their eyes lock, blue against brown, and Hermione shivers at the beauty before her.

"Stay soft, okay?" Hermione doesn't know why she cannot keep her mouth shut.

Narcissa almost jumps at this, eyes becoming unsure and stressed. 

Hermione sits up in the sofa to face Narcissa more fully, where she's seated on a chair at a table, and continues:

"The things you wrote. I agree and I don't agree. I think maybe... I shouldn't try to rationalise everything all the time, you're right about that. But I also think behaviours... actions... can be parts of patterns. I think you look at yourself and learn... and you can teach yourself to be softer, more often. Be helpful more often. I think you can learn from yourself and try to change. I think... you can help yourself feel better by treating yourself better, pushing yourself to be kinder to others and yourself. I think... you should stay soft. It's..."

Narcissa's eyes are so very big, begging her to stop and urging her on simultaneously.

Hermione continues: "You should stay soft. Yeah. It's beautiful on you." 

Hermione stands up, feels the blood rush from her head, momentarily blinded, balance off. In a matter of seconds, Narcissa is at her side, a hand on her arm, steadying her. The only thing Hermione can think of is that sweet, cool scent.

"Easy there," Narcissa mumbles, and it feels small and intimate. Hermione finally sees again, and Narcissa is standing right next to her. Their eyes meet and the other woman looks... small. Unsure. Broken.

"You sleeping okay?" Hermione asks and Narcissa drops her hand from Hermione's arm and looks down at the floor.

"Yes."

"Good." 

Hermione manages to take a step toward the door before Narcissa says,

"Are you going back out there?" 

It takes Hermione completely by surprise. She stops in her tracks and turns around. 

"That was my intention, yes."

"OK. Well... please do refrain from fainting again." 

Hermione doesn't know what to say, but feels reluctant to leave.

"Do you want to come with?"

"With you?" Narcissa sneers, but then seems to realise herself, and gives Hermione a slightly apologetic glance.

"Yes. With me. I'll buy you a drink." 

Narcissa's eyes close and she looks tired. From a few feet away, Hermione can even hear Narcissa mumble to herself. "What in Merlin's pants am I doing?" 

Narcissa's eyes open, blue steel illuminated by the soft candelit room. 

"I'll have a drink with you. But let's go upstairs. Not many people know of it, but there's a rooftop bar on top of this building. It's calm, silent. For a more... mature audience, I'd say."

Hermione nods, feels her heart beat faster. 

Indeed, what in Merlin's pants is she doing? Having a drink with Narcissa Malfoy? Meeting in libraries? Writing letters? Her head aches, and she pushes the thought away, along with thoughts of having to find Ginny and Ron and Harry and... She pushes all thoughts away, and follows the blonde out the door, up a staircase.

The music from the dance floor blasts loudly in the narrow hallway, it's like the walls are shaking from the heavy bass. They walk staircase after staircase until they must've climbed at least five floors. There's a door to the left with some kind of golden inscription on it that Narcissa pushes open, to reveal a sort of restaurant. But what catches Hermione's eye is the ceiling _entirely made out of glass. _Like in the great hall at Hogwarts, the night sky stares down at her with its twinkling stars. Hermione's mouth falls open and when she looks to the left, she spots a slight smirk on Narcissa's face. There are witches and wizards scattered about the room in different constellations, and to the right, along the wall, a bar and shelves with endless amounts of bottles. No one seems to notice them, and Hermione thanks the stars for that. Being seen with Narcissa Malfoy in public. What are they even doing?

Hermione closes her mouth and follows Narcissa's quick steps to a corner table, where a waiter greets them. The waiter raises an eyebrow but does thankfully not say a thing. They get seated on opposite sides and Narcissa orders two fire whiskeys.   
And then, their eyes lock.

"So," Narcissa begins, "you wanted to have a drink with me. Now, you're having a drink with me."

"Yes." Hermione can't help but blush a little. She curses to herself internally. 

Narcissa's eyes become serious but then she smiles, slightly, a bit teasing, "Did you really faint because you kissed a girl?" She chuckles, with a ghost of an echo of warmth.

But Hermione's doesn't take the bait, decides to be serious. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I thought I was doing better. I've been sleeping better, dreaming less... Things have felt much easier with Ron... I don't know why... I suddenly decided to...-"

Narcissa moves in her seat, fingers tapping against the table. 

"Kiss someone else?" Narcissa fills in.

Hermione nods. "Sometimes I wonder if I even want to be with him at all. If I even want to be with anyone. Maybe I need to be on my own, you know. Figure myself out and learn to understand what I feel and want and need." 

"I do think that sounds wise," says Narcissa. The waiter arrives with their drinks and Hermione takes a sip, revelling at the mixture of sweet and bitter on her tongue. "But you should probably try to avoid infidelity. That's never good for the soul." 

Hermione's eyes widens, doesn't know if she should read anything into how Narcissa sounds like she's talking from experience. 

Hermione instead asks the second question on her mind. "You believe in the notion of a soul?" 

Narccisa bites her lip, frowns a little, takes a sip, seems to be thinking deeply. "It's kind of ingrained in the way I was raised. And I did study magical spirituality quite a bit when I was younger. I found it so fascinating, the knowledge that there's so much magic in us that we cannot, despite our best efforts, reign in and control."

Hermione looks at her with big eyes, trying to mentally urge her to continue. Narcissa finishes: "Like dreams."

Hermione nods. "If you're not comfortable, we obviously don't have to talk about it, but... have you given it any thought? The fact that I kept dreaming about you and the basement and... yeah, you know, for so long?" 

Narcissa looks thoughtful, but also kind of uncomfortable at this question. "I have... and to be honest, I don't like it." 

Hermione swallows down the adrenaline and opens her mouth to speak, but Narcissa hurries to continue: "Not for the reasons you might assume. I just don't... like the idea of magic forcing us together like that. You dreaming about me night after night, me not... having a choice in the matter. I think that's a sort of breach of boundaries. Not that you can control it, I suppose, since that's the way trauma often works. But... wouldn't our connection feel more genuine if it were a choice to connect?"

Hermione's about to answer when Narcissa interrupts, "that was a hypothetical question." 

  
Hermione nods, gives herself a few seconds to think.

  
"I can understand that. I'm sorry if I made you very uncomfortable. I was desperate and deeply depressed, and I needed to confront you in some way. But I am sorry." 

Narcissa finishes her drink with an elegant swig. "Thank you for the apology." 

  
Hermione looks up to notice the amount of people in the room having diminished greatly.

"Merlin! What time is it?" She almost stands up.

Narcissa squints her eyes at the wall somewhere behind Hermione. "It appears to be almost 3 in the morning. No wonder I'm feeling so tired. I should head home." She stands up and Hermione mirrors her, feeling kind of timid.

"Uh. Thanks for having a drink with me." 

  
Narcissa doesn't say anything, just pulls out a few silver sickles from the pocket of her robes and puts them on the table. "My treat." 

  
Narcissa's eyes have become cold and distant, and Hermione desperately tries to understand why. She'd been so friendly minutes ago, and felt so... open. As they cross the room toward the exit, Hermione struggles to keep up, and once in the hallway and staircase Hermione dares to take hold of Narcissa's arm.  
  


"Hey. Stop." 

Narcissa turns around, but looks anywhere but at Hermione. 

"What happened. Why are you pulling away.? I can feel it... My magic can feel it."

Narcissa's eyes find her in the semi darkness. 

"I... I shouldn't be talking to you, let alone have a drink with you. I... I shouldn't... What the _fuck_\--" The profanity escapes her mouth, velvety voice low and cold and Hermione doesn't know what to do.   
  


Narcissa shakes herself free of Hermione's hold and she gives her one last look before turning around and hurrying down the stairs.

.

When Hermione's finally arrives home, Ron is livid.

"We thought you'd been _kidnapped." _

  
Hermione just closes her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm fine. Let's just go to bed." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Do not hesitate to leave a comment and tell me your thoughts.


	4. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a quite unexpected turn tbh... Pls tell me what you think!

On Sunday, she arrives at the library but does not open any of her many books. The sun is warm in the crisp April air, and once again the children are playing out in the courtyard. This time, Hermione decides to follow her Gryffindor stupidity instinct and go out to them. She manages to locate a door in-between two book shelves that should open to the very eastern corner of the courtyard, and pushes open the heavy oak. Children's voices travel through the air, young and full of life. She looks about the yard and doesn't know what to do, but after a minute a little boy stops a few metres away from her.

"Hello," she says, crouches down so their faces are the same level. He looks to be about four or five years old.

"I'm Hermione." 

The boy has deep brown eyes, big and beautiful, and curls that kind of resemble her own. He gives her a toothy smile and then runs off. Hermione smiles, and finally spots the woman that supervises the children every week. As the other woman notices her, she stands up.

"Oi. What are you doing here? This is private property."

"I was in the library and saw... Who are these children?"

The young woman sighs, "This is an orphanage."

The blue sky stays blue and the sun shines down on all of them. Hermione doesn't know what to think or say.

"An... an orphanage? But in this day and age, and I mean we're in England, and..." 

"It's a war thing, don't you get it? Most of these children have parents that died in the war." 

Hermione tries to swallow down the sudden urge to cry. 

"Oh. I see. And they live here?" 

The woman points to the building on the other side of the courtyard. "Right there." 

"How many are they?"

"19." 

Hermione closes her eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again.

  
"Is there anything I can help with?"

The other woman laughs, "Don't you worry about that, Ms Granger. I'm sure you have more important things to focus on."

Hermione tends to forget that most people know who she is, that she's never anonymous in the wizarding world.

"Of course. But... I'd like to help."

"You've already done enough. You've got to go now." The woman turns around, heading back to the bench she always sits on.

Hermione sighs and turns around, heading back toward the library. The little boy from before appears before her and smiles up at her; Hermione can't help but crouch again and give him a smile.

"What's your name?"

"Adam, " the little boy squints at her with playful eyes and then skips across the cobbled yard, away from her. Hermione chuckles and heads back to the library.

x

That night, her dream consists of the Great Hall filling with water, and a mermaid slowly swimmming between the tables.

x

On Monday, she takes three hours off work in the morning, and heads out in the sunny London weather. She makes her way toward the library, but as she reaches the street on which the library is, she does not turn left to the entrace. Instead, she keeps walking, turning right onto the next street. Soon, she finds what must be the entrance to the orphanage, a quite anonymous building with a small sign next to the wooden entrance simply reading: orphanage.

Hermione swallows down a feeling of nervousness and tries to open the door. It is locked, just as she suspected. She knocks and waits a few minutes, huddling for warmth in the crisp morning air. She knocks again, but instead of someone coming to open the door, she hears someone clear their throat behind her. She turns around to be met by the sight of none other than Mrs Malfoy.

She's beautiful with rosy cheeks and all Hermione can manage to say is: "Oh."

Mrs Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "You're in my way." 

"You're going inside?" Hermione points to the locked doors.

"Yes." Narcissa steps past her, bringing with her that cool scent. 

"Can I come with you?" 

Narcissa shoots her a sharp look before tapping on the wooden surface with her wand. 

"Into the orphanage?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?"

"I want to help." Hermione follows Narcissa inside and as the doors close behind her, she finds herself in a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The place is still and quiet. 

"You Gryffindors and your idiotic hero complex," Narcissa mutters under her breath, which only makes Hermione smile. 

"What are you doing here?" She asks instead. 

Narcissa turns so she's fully facing Hermione in the dimlty lit hallway, "Well. I'm the founder of this place." She gives Hermione a small, sweet, venomous smile, and Hermione shivers. 

"Oh."

"Mhmm." Narcissa turns and starts walking up the staircarse. "Now, if you so badly want to stay here and help out, be my guest. No one can deny Hermione Granger, the master mind of the precious Golden Trio anything, can they?" Narcissa's voice is sarcastic and harsh and Hermione feels herself shrink.

"I wish you wouldn't... that's not why--" Hermione begins, but doesn't know how to answer.

"Do you even know how to care for children?" Narcissa says as they've reached the third floor. 

Hermione feels more stupid by the minute. "No... not really." 

Narcissa sighs, walking down the corridor, sparsely decorated and quiet. She opens a door to the left at the end of the corridor, and Hermione follows her inside a beautifully decorated office. The sun peaks through beige, light curtains, giving the room a softly golden light. To the left, opposite of the windows, there's a rusty red couch next to a fireplace; by the windows, an old wooden desk filled with papers and in front of it two chairs, for guests. Narcissa makes her way around the desk and takes a seat. She points her wand at the curtains, parting them, letting the room bathe in the morning sun. 

  
"Well. Welcome to my office, miss Granger. If you insist on staying here "helping out," Narcissa makes a motion with her fingers, "would you mind getting me a cup off coffee from the kitchens?"

Hermione doesn't know what to say, feeling quite shell shocked at the turn of this morning's events. She had not expected to find herself in an office of Narcissa Malfoy, let alone an office of Narcissa Malfoy at a _children's orphanage_. 

"Sure. Where... are the kitchens?"

Narcissa gives her a pointed look. "Bottom floor. But..."

Hermione waits as Narcissa simply looks at her with clear eyes. 

"Aren't you supposed to be at the Ministry. They didn't fire you, did they?" 

"No. I took the morning off. I just... want to help. If there's anything I can do."

Narcissa frowns, and seems to, for the first time this morning, let down her guard a bit. "Well. We're severely understaffed. Not a lot of people are keen on working with... the likes of me. Or working at an orphanage for that matter. Tricky combination, that is. We could... use all the help we can get." Narcissa looks out the windows, a soft look on her face.

"But I'm not sure what tasks I could give you. You're not trained to be around children, especially not children dealing with as much trauma as these kids. I'm not sure whether you'd do more damage than good." 

Hermione nods, sort of agreeing with Narcissa's words, slowly starting to wonder why she thought this would be a good idea in the first place. But the little boy Adam's big, sweet eyes flash behind her eyelids as she blinks, and she straightens her back.

"Surely I can be useful for something. Let's start with your coffee."

Narcissa looks at her with contemplative eyes.

"Alright. Off you go. Bottom floor, first door to the left." 

Hermione nods. 

.

When she gets back upstairs (after having retrieved a cup of coffee with both sugar and milk from a a sweet _employed_ and _paid_ house elf named Rosie) she ascends the stairs to Narcissa's office.

"A coffee with a _lot_ of sugar incoming," Hermione says as she enters the office and levitates the cup onto the desk. Narcissa gives her a vicious look in return but all Hermione can focus on is the elegance in Narcissa's movements as she puts the cup to her mouth. Hermione suddenly has a hard time swallowing. She looks away. 

"So this is why you've been at the library." Hermione nods in the direction of the library across the courtyard.

"Hmm. Yes. It's quite convenient," is all Narcissa replies as she keeps sipping her coffee and flicking through stacks of papers. 

And suddenly, a barely audible knock on the door. 

Narcissa sighs, "Come in." 

But it isn't an employee. At first, a baffled Hermione wonders whether it's someone wearing an invisibility cloak, until she looks down to find it's the little boy that she met the other day in the courtyard, Adam, hair messy and eyes tired. He's heartbreakingly sweet looking. 

"Oh," comes Narcissa's voice to Hermione's left, soft like honey. Hermione's mouth falls open. 

"Adam," Narcissa chastices, but with such a sweet, low voice, loving and soft, "What have I told you about coming here before breakfast?" Narcissa gets up and approaches the boy, crouching elegantly, even in heels, before the boy. She puts a hand on his arm, face calm.

The boy gives her a slight grin, "Jus' wanted ta say good morning, Mrs Melfoi," comes his sweet reply, and at this, Narcissa slowly gives him the most beautiful smile Hermione's ever seen. 

"Good morning, Adam." She playfully puts a finger against his chest, making a show of pretending to push. "Now off you go, dear."

He gives her a grin, more awake now, and runs out of the room down the hallway.

Narcissa stays crouched on the floor, eyes becoming contemplative and big. "He always manages to sneak off, that one. He came here just a few months ago. His mum died in the war. And his father... a few months ago. He still won't let anyone come near him apart from..." Narcissa swallows, eyes becoming glassy, "me." She turns to look Hermione in the eye and Hermione's met with a look of immense sadness. She can feel her heart starting to beat quicker.

Narcissa's energy feels vulnerable and vibrant as she rises to her full length, approaching Hermione, who almost wants to act on the impulse of backing away from the impressive woman. But Hermione stays rooted as Narcissa comes closer to her with imploring and big eyes.

"Are you sure you'll be able to handle this? Children, orphans... it's extremely tough to see them struggling. Something else entirely."

Hermione can only nod. 

Narcissa holds her gaze, serious but somehow soft. "You have to be sure. I'm going to give you some time to think about it. I still don't quite understand why you insist on popping up in my life like this, but if you decide that you want to help out here, occasionally, I want you to be sure. And I need to think about it as well. I can't have someone new show up in these already severely traumatised children's lives - noble idiot or not - wanting to help them, and then disappear because they couldn't handle the pressure," Narcissa swallows, takes a step closer, gives her an even softer look. "I need to think."

Hermione nods again. 

Narcissa closes her eyes for a moment. "You should go. I assume you'll be in the library on Sunday. I'll find you then."

And with that, Hermione is dismissed.

.

Hermione sleeps restlessly all week. The dream doesn't occur every night anymore, but there's always a hint of it, always the echo of Bellatrix's laughter, or the sharp pain of skin being cut, or blue eyes suddenly appearing in the dark basement, always an echo of the dream. She tosses and turns so much that even Ron, the always so heavy sleeper, wakes up one night, frustrated and angry. 

"Take a potion or something," he yells and turns to the other side. 

.

On Sunday, Narcissa shows up, bringing with her a cool wind, seemingly out of breath. Hermione almost wants to smile at the usually so calm and collected witch.

Narcissa takes a seat opposite of her.

"So. I've been thinking. And what I could agree to is you coming to the orphanage on Sundays. Same time as now. And you'll simply be in charge of the huge weekly amount of paperwork that I always leave until the very last minute. I assume it'll take some time for you to get into the bureaucracy but once you have, it'd really take some of the weight off our shoulders. But I can't have you be around the children. Not yet at least."

All Hermione can do is give her a small, genuine smile. "I'd love that."

And to her astonishment, Narcissa gives her a small, hesitant smile back.

.

Ron is not happy with this turn of events.

"So now you'll not only work from 7-7 every day at the ministry, but also do extra work _every Sunday. _At a bloody orphanage. I don't understand what's gotten into you."

Hermione recoils at the harsh tone. "But... you know I've been depressed. I need to do something productive. I need to help."

Ron softens a little, "My love, you've helped enough already. Without you, the war would never have stopped. Every witch and wizard in this country know that."

"It's not about what people think. I just need... you should've seen the children out in that courtyard, Ron. No family, no parents... nothing. And it's our fault. If we'd stopped the war sooner, their parents might still be ali--"

"You can't blame yourself like that, Hermione. You just can't."

Hermione nods, feels the tears fill her eyes. "I know. And still, I do. Will you let me have this? At least for a while."

Ron takes a sip of his morning coffee and puts on his coat, ready to leave for work. "All right," is all he says before turning around and leaving the flat.


	5. .

Next Sunday, Hermione spends the entire day getting instructions from Narcissa on how to fill out the copius amounts of paperwork. There's the budgets, the donations from various charities, the staff, the legal bit with some of the children and their more distant relatives considering adoption, the house elves' salaries, the buying of supplies, toys, clothes, - endless amounts of paperwork. 

Hermione finds herself completely engrossed in the task, her old habit of being exceedingly good at studying kicking in. If Narcissa is impressed, she doesn't show it. Narcissa spends the day either with Hermione in the office or talking to the staff elsewhere in the building, leaving Hermione to fend for herself for hours at a time. At noon, Narcissa brings her a tuna sandwich and a coffee from the kitchens, suggesting Hermiome take a little break, but Hermione will have none of it, engrossed in a particularly engaging and pressing sketch of a contract ensuring humane working conditions for the house elves.

After a long first day, Narcissa finally comes back in the office, softly saying her name.

"Hermione. You've done enough for the day."

Hermione looks up from her quill and parchment, eyes tired but filled with energy.

"You sure?" she says and Narcissa gives her a look.

"Yes. I'm sure. Come on."

Narcissa reaches for her coat and Hermione stands up, limbs stiff. Together, they make their way downstairs to the hallway. The children are out in the back courtyard again so the orphanage is unusually quiet, not a person in sight.

Once outside Narcissa catches her completely by surprise,

"Did you tell Weasley about the girl?" 

Hermione even stops in her tracks and Narcissa stops too, turns to face her, almost seeming bit amused.

"No. I didn't. You think I should have?" Hermione tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and notices Narcissa's eyes follow the movement of her hand before flicking back to meet hers. 

"It's really not my place to say."

Hermione nods. "Where are you heading? I'm heading to the floo meeting point a few streets away."

Narcissa starts walking. "I live in the neighbourhood."

When they reach the crossing, Hermione cannot seem to help herself.

"Do you want to go to dinner?"

Narcissa's face turns hard, almost a bit suspicious, "now?"

"Yes. On me. I could pay you back for the drink." 

Narcissa seems hesitant, eyes beautiful and slightly solemn. "I'm not sure that's a very good idea."

"Why not?"

Narcissa harshens a bit further, frowning. "You know why. Because of who we are. Our history. The war. I'm still not sure how we even got here. You being at the orphanage helping out. Us even being on speaking terms."

"I don't care what people think," Hermione says, feeling defensive, almost a bit naive for some reason. Why do things have to be so hard? she thinks.

Narcissa looks at her, and for the first time since the basement she directs that immense, unusual softness right at Hermione. Hermione gives her a hesitant smile; she cannot tear her eyes away from Narcissa's stunning features.

"I'm starting to notice that," is all Narcissa says before looking around them at the quiet Sunday evening street. "All right," she continues, gives Hermione what could be interpreted as a slightly playful look, "let's have dinner. But I'm paying." 

They find an Indian restaurant a few streets down, taking a seat in the innermost corner of the place. It's a small, elegant place, candlelit and a bit intimate. 

When they've ordered, Hermione continues their earlier conversation:

"So you think I should tell him about the girl or not?" 

"I’m not sure. Probably, yes, you should. But if it's just going to cause unnecessary damage... I don't... know. You only kissed for Merlin's sake." 

Hermione thinks back on the memory of the girl from the club, her hands on her hips, warm and soft and---

When she focuses again, she finds Narcissa smirking at her from the other side of the table. It's a frighteningly alluring look.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" Hermione is blunt, she knows this, but she cannot seem to help herself.

"Yes. I have."

"Oh." Hermione doesn't know what to say, barely dares to think about Narcissa being intimate with anyone. The questions grow in amount. How many? Who were they? Did she tell her husband? Did he care?

Hermione bites back the questions, "I'm tired."

Narcissa nods, "as am I."

Outside the restaurant an hour later, the air has become colder. Hermione shivers as they make their way down the street.

"You sleeping all right?" Hermione asks.

"Yes I am. Are you?" 

Hermione bites her lip. "Yes. Better than I have in months."

At this, Narcissa smiles, "I'm glad." 

—

Hermione dreams of a soft touch to her cheek, but this time it’s followed by a gentle kiss.

She wakes up in panic, knocking over the glass of water on the nightstand. Fuck. The room is dark and Ron is snoring softly and Hermione doesn’t know what to do with herself.

She falls back asleep.

\--

  
In a way, they fall into a routine. Hermione spends her weekdays at the Ministry, friday nights with Ron and their friends at various restaurants and bars, Saturdays with Ron and then Sundays filling out paperwork at the orphanage. The constant activity and workload become a way for her to keep the dreams at bay, falling asleep the moment her head hits the pillow each night. 

She doesn't think too much about the kiss with the girl, doesn't really know what to do with the memory and sensation. Yes, it made her body wake up in ways she didn't know it needed to, but what can she do about that now? She's with Ron and she loves him fiercely, feels so at home and safe. They've built something for so many years, a magnificent foundation giving way to a life where one is loved. 

Since she's started spending every Sunday at the orphanage instead of the library, the dream diary becomes neglected and forgotten. She dreams sometimes, but she doesn't write it down or have time to stop and think about it too much. The days go by and she starts to find herself always looking forward to the weekend, counting down the days until she can go to the orphanage and spend the day in Narcissa's office. 

There's a feeling of peace inside that room that she cannot put her finger on, quiet and calm apart from children's voices through the open window or when Adam bounces inside with a toothy grin to say good morning to Narcissa. When he does this, she always turns so incredibly soft and the scene always leaves Hermione in awe. Narcissa gives her the occasional smile nowadays, often asks her how she's slept. When she's in Narcissa's office, she feels her mind becoming silent and in the moment. No thoughts of the past, of the war, of the dreams, of the loss. Instead, simple silence. 

The weeks go by and her mind finally catches a little bit of a break.

\---

They don't go out to dinner again until two months later. After a hectic Sunday during which two of the children has had major tantrums, screaming and scratching and refusing to eat, causing Narcissa to be busy all day trying to calm down both the staff and the rest of the children (and on top of that one child accidentally managed to magically break the staircase in two) Narcissa looks tired and defeated as they pack up the office for the day.

"Merlin..." she mutters under her breath, eyes too open, too tired, as she puts on her coat and Hermione stands up, "I could really use a glass of wine. Or stronger. Firewhiskey." 

Hermione, who finds herself constantly wanting to prolong the time spent in the presence of Narcissa, tries to sound casual: "Well. Let's go eat? I'm starving. And you can have your glass of wine. " 

Narcissa gives that familiar look of slight suspicion before sighing, "All right then, Miss Granger. Lead the way." 

They go to the same Indian restaurant, this time sitting outside in the June evening sunset. Hermione cannot seem to stop throwing looks at Narcissa who, bathed in the golden light, resembles more of a veela than a mere witch. Based on the looks from men and women alike sent their way, Hermione's not the only one entranced by the sight of Narcissa Malfoy in the evening sun.

"You haven't mentioned the dreams in quite some time." Narcissa says it cautiously but with a sort of calculated, sharp look. 

"They've lessened. I don't know why." Hermione sips her wine, enjoying the bitter taste.

"You must have some theory on why, surely? What does the book you were reading say?" 

"Oh. I haven't looked at it in weeks." 

"Why not?"

"Well... I'm not dreaming us much. The dreams don't hurt as much. They feel lighter." Hermione smiles at Narcissa, but based on Narcissa's steely look in return, she will have none of it. 

"Just because you're feeling better, it does not mean you've dealt with it, Hermione. Just because you're busier than three of your friends combined, working full time at the Ministry and with me at the orphanage every week, it doesn't mean it's not still inside of you. The pain and the memories. Surely you understand that yourself. You can't just stop taking care of yourself because you're _busy_."

Hermione's confused. "I thought you'd like the idea of me not dreaming anymore. If not because you're happy for me then at least because it means my mind isn't constantly conjuring images of you against your consent." 

"I _am_ happy that you're not dreaming those dreadful nightmares as often. But I insist on the fact that you should keep writing the dream diary, keep trying to make sense of it all. Keep doing the work." 

She gives Hermione a pointed look and Hermione nods, taking another sip of her wine.

"You may be right. I'll keep doing the research." 

"Good."

They fall silent and after a minute Hermione remembers a particular moment from that same morning.

The incredibly hectic and chaotic day had started with Adam bursting through the door at 8PM, just as Hermione was removing her coat and getting ready to take a seat at the small desk they'd installed in the corner of the room. He had run straight up to Narcissa, reaching for her, and she had immediately knelt to pick him up, placing him on her hip in one elegant move.

He'd been crying silently, the silence of the tears evidence of a childhood innocence lost. 

Narcissa's voice had taken on that soft edge as she whispered to the boy, nuzzling his cheek gently: "My sweet boy. Why are you crying?"

"Miss mama." 

"Oh." 

Hermione hadn't been able to see much more than Narcissa's profile as the boy clung to her embrace, but she's pretty sure she saw a tear running down the woman's cheek. Hermione could feel her own heart aching but she did nothing but stand in the corner, silent, as Narcissa comforted the child.

Hermione returns to present time and looks at Narcissa who's watching the people passing by the restaurant on the other side of the street.

"So... Adam. This morning."

Narcissa turns so she's facing Hermione fully, eyes suddenly even bluer in the light of a slowly setting sun.

  
"Yes. Adam." Narcissa swallows and takes a careful sip of her water before continuing:

"I wish I could take it away, his pain. He's only four years old for Merlin's sake. He should be playing with toys, laughing, always, every day. He should... have a home. A mother's embrace." Her eyes become glassy and Hermione wants to take her hand across the table. She stifles the entirely too intimate impulse, swallows down the emotion. 

Narcissa eyes rest on something on the pavement to the right as she speaks, a faraway look on her face, somehow relaxed and open in a way she seldom is, "Children need physical touch in order to develop as they should, did you know that? Touch to the skin is essential. If they don't get physical touch it doesn't matter how many meals you give them, how many toys. Eventually their body stops developing. They start to starve. Start to rock themselves back and forth as a way to stimulate the skin, to recreate the illusion of being touched, being held." 

Narcissa continues: "I want to take them home with me. All of them. Every night I want to take them home to a real bedroom, their own clothes and toys, and give them all the love I have."

  
Hermione feels her eyes becoming glassy and after a few minutes of staring at Narcissa's hauntingly sorrowful blue eyes, she says the first thing that enters her mind:

"Are you ever held? Now that your husband is in...-" she interrupts herself with a deep breath. Narcissa's eyes focus on her immediately, sharper, but her voice is dangerously quiet and soft:

"That's quite the personal question, Miss Granger." Her blue eyes are a mix of venom and grace. 

  
"I know," Hermione breathes and Narcissa takes a sip of her red wine, licking her lips after.

"No. But I'm all right. Eventually, as an adult, you get used to it. The absence of touch." She finishes her wine glass before continuing: "But I'm not always alone. I do have the occasional... intimate encounter."

Hermione remembers when she walked past Narcissa with that witch at Leaky Cauldron months ago and nods. 

  
"That's something, at least," Hermione says hesitantly, "but is it really enough?"   
  


Endless amounts of venom sipper into Narcissa's eyes. Her spine straightens, the bustle of the outdoor seating area around them coming to life again. Hermione feel like she just left a vacuum and entered the real world again. 

"That's enough for today, don't you think?" Narcissa stands up and drops a gallon on the table. 

Hermione scrambles to her feet, trying to keep up with the blonde. "I'm sorry if I overstepped, Narcissa, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry--" 

Narcissa turns so quickly that Hermione walks into her. Their faces are for a split second incredibly close. Narcissa doesn't say anything, just looks Hermione directly in the eye, face a blank mask. She seems to be contemplating something, eyeing Hermione closely and Hermione can feel her cheeks slowly heating up. They're still next to their table but no one in the outdoor area seems to think anything of their sudden stop and proximity. Hermione waits for Narcissa to say something, and when she doesn't, Hermione takes an infitesmall step closer to the witch. 

"I'm sorry. I've found that I care about how you are. I can't help it. I just want to know you're okay." 

Narcissa's face hardens. "How noble of you, Miss Golden Trio." 

Her voice is harsh and so very mean, and with that, she turns and quickly heads down the street.

  
That night as Hermione goes to bed, Ron embraces her from behind, and she sighs, feeling the warmth of his body, feeling herself relax. A sudden image of Narcissa in the evening sun flashes behind her eyelids and she can't help but wonder how long it's been since the witch was held.


End file.
